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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713686">Philtatos, the most beloved</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_verse/pseuds/athena_verse'>athena_verse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Greece, Homeros | Homer (c. 8th Century BCE) References, LGBTQ Themes, Love, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Poetry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:06:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_verse/pseuds/athena_verse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴: 𝘈𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘈𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥.</p><p>Patroclus is insecure and constantly compares himself with the son of the gods, Achilles. <br/>Achilles tells Patroclus what he really means to him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Achilles &amp; Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Philtatos, the most beloved</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, this is my first story at Archive of our Own. I hope you enjoy the story :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>People always talk about Phthia's summers, but hardly ever about its winters.</p><p>In winter, the roofs of the palace were covered with snow and icicles hung from the branches of the olive trees. Everything was white and silent; a kind of icy beauty hung over the landscape, as if nature were resting. It had been yet another hot summer and it had borne many fruits. The trees had finally been able to let go of their heavy loads and enjoyed the cold snow on their skin.</p><p>Although the fires were burning everywhere in the palace, the tiled floors were ice-cold under my bare feet. They were calloused from walking around without shoes all summer. Now that it was winter, we hardly ever went out and they became soft again.</p><p> </p><p>Achilles' feet were always soft. Mine were covered with wounds and grooves from getting stuck on stones and thorny bushes, but his' were smooth and perfectly formed. It was just one of the many things I admired about him. He was not fully human and it showed even in the way he walked, so graceful and confident. He knew what he wanted and where he wanted to go, and his feet would obey him instead of challenging him to go somewhere else, as mine did so often.</p><p>In the beginning I was so insecure when I watched him walking. I remembered what my father had said, that day at the Olympics when I had seen Achilles for the first time. This is how a son should be. I always tried to imitate him and sprint across the stones gracefully and quickly, but I was, as my father had always told me, a clumsy failure, and I always fell. </p><p> </p><p>One time I tripped and fell to the ground at his feet. I didn't dare to look up, and when I finally did, I looked straight into his surprised face. My cheeks turned red and I stuttered and stammered, trying to come up with anything, anything to get myself out of this predicament and embarrassment. Oh, how embarrassed I was. </p><p>But all he did was hold out his hand, help me up - his arms were much stronger than mine and looked much more like the arms of an adult warrior - and smile at me.</p><p>"Patroclus. He said my name. Pa-tro-clus. The way he said it sent shivers down my spine. He was the first person to say my name that way. Patroclus. Honor of a father. I had not honored that name, and I knew it. My father had always spoken it like it was a dirty word, something you shouldn't say out loud. The whole world didn't need to know that his son was such a failure. </p><p>I had come to loathe that name, spoke it quickly when someone asked about it, without value. I hated it. It reminded me over and over again of what a disappointment I was.</p><p>It was that day for the first time that I felt comfortable with that name. Achilles spoke with such love, such warmth, such security. For a moment, I felt like I was worthy of that name. For a moment I felt like Prince Patroclus again, son of Menoetius, a son of Kings. </p><p>But that lasted only a moment. After a few seconds, I was back in reality and remembered the real reason I was here. I was banned. I had humiliated my father instead of honoring him. Sending me here had not only made me an orphan, but I had also lost my name.</p><p>I looked at Achilles. 'I hate that name.' I said it on a whim and didn't think it through. I felt safe with him and felt free to say whatever I wanted. </p><p>He looked at me inquiringly, perhaps with a hurt look in his eyes, as if it hurt him to hear that I hated the name he had spoken with such tenderness.</p><p>A moment later he had turned and walked away.</p><p> </p><p>Six months later it was summer, and Achilles and I were resting in the shade of a pine tree. Achilles hung out at the bottom of the tree and I sat against the trunk. His legs dangled over the branches.</p><p> </p><p>He was eating figs. I knew how much he loved them, which is why I sneaked out of our room early that morning to pick them. When I returned, he wasn't there, but that was normal, because around that time he always visited his mother. In the morning he had his lyre lessons and since I didn't feel much like confronting his grumpy teacher again, I wandered through the palace gardens instead and waited until the sun was high in the sky.</p><p>In the afternoon, he finally finished his princely duties and we fled back to the gardens. We ran until we could do no more, then made our way to the cooling shadows of the pine trees to escape the scorching heat of the Greek sun. </p><p>I had the figs in my pockets and gave them to him, while he sat thoughtlessly playing his lyre. The joy on his face was great, and the gladness in his eyes fed me more than a hundred bags of figs could ever do.</p><p>I observed Achilles as he put the figs in his mouth. I watched as the fruit burst in his mouth and the juice flowed over his fingers. </p><p>When he finished, he looked at me with a thoughtful look in his eyes. Without saying anything yet, I knew what he was thinking about. We had never talked about it since that day, but I knew he would come back to it at some point.</p><p>'You told me you hate your name.' I didn't have to respond. It was a fact and I had nothing to say about it. He looked at me thoughtfully. 'Why, Patroclus? Pa-tro-clus. Again he pronounced it that way. Again those shivers. </p><p>He gave me a challenging look. He did it on purpose, I realized. He wanted me to get angry. He wanted to argue with me and would enjoy it. But he also knew I wouldn't. I would answer his question. Satisfy his desire. I was no match for him. And he enjoyed that knowledge even more.</p><p>'I am not worth it.' </p><p>Achilles looked at me in surprise. Of all the answers, he certainly hadn't expected this one. But he said nothing. Another reason why I loved him: he always showed patience and let me speak when I wanted. Or it was to maintain his godly nonchalance.</p><p>'My name. I am not worthy of it. You would be worth it, Achilles. You would certainly be worthy of it. You are an honor to your father, he is proud of you. Any other boy would be worth it. But not me. I'm a bane of my father's existence. You know why I was sent here. I am banned. In the name of the gods, I killed a boy!' </p><p>Anyone else would have looked around anxiously and prayed a quick prayer. Our vengeance goddesses were not so picky and bad luck was contagious.</p><p>But not Achilles. He stayed and sat quietly on the branch and did not move. He sat so still that I began to think he was one of the ancient statues from the halls of Peleus. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, he looked at me. 'I think that name suits you.'</p><p>I looked at him in surprise. I knew he liked me, maybe even loved me, but someone like me, who had killed a boy at such a young age, deserved no honor.</p><p>'How so?'</p><p>'You think you know yourself so well. You think you know who you are and what you deserve. But do you know, Patroclus? I don't think you know yourself at all. It's not that someone who has done something wrong doesn't deserve honor or love. Everyone makes mistakes. So do I.'</p><p>It seemed impossible that this divine boy, with his golden hair and graceful limbs, could do anything wrong.</p><p> </p><p>'Perhaps my greatest fault is my desire for honor. Perhaps yours is your low self-esteem.'</p><p> </p><p>I looked at him, and our eyes met. His gaze was serious and tender at the same time.</p><p>'No one is perfect, Patroclus. But everyone has a chance to make up for their mistakes. And shall I tell you something?'</p><p>Curiosity welled up in my chest.</p><p>'Without you I would be nowhere. You are my honor, Patroclus. My pride. Not my honor, or my fighting skills, or my divine lineage. No, you.' </p><p> </p><p>Emotion and honesty shone in his eyes. He meant what he said. Of course he meant it. That was one of his good qualities: Aristos Achaion, the best of Greeks, never lied. </p><p>There were no words that could make my love for him clear. I wanted to say so much to him, but I didn't know how. But he was half of my soul, as the poets say, and he understood me even though I did not speak with words. Love and gratitude could probably be read in my eyes. </p><p>His eyes sparkled like the stars of Artemis's skies that rose above the palace at night. My skin tingled as his fingers, white as ivory and soft as a kiss from Aphrodite, touched me.</p><p>'But if you don't like your name I know another,' Achilles whispered.<br/>'And that is?' I whispered back. </p><p>'Philtatos.' </p><p>Phil-ta-tos. </p><p>The most beloved.</p>
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